The battlefield had forgotten what silence was.
Steel shrieked against steel in relentless rhythm, the sound buried beneath the thunder of detonating shellfire and collapsing formations. Charred earth smoked beneath boots slick with mud and blood, and the air itself tasted metallic — thick with ash, mana discharge, and the dying heat of shattered enchantments. For four days, the armies of the Vartas Empire and the Frost Kingdom had torn at one another, grinding men into memory and ambition into corpses. Magic carved trenches where rivers once ran. War banners burned. Names were lost.
Morning of the fifth day arrived without ceremony.
Prince Julius Von Trudus, the heir to the throne of Vartas, stood at the fractured front line, armor fractured, cloak torn, crimson soaking through the seams where blade and spell had found him. Across from him stood Prince August Frost, prince of the frost kingdom — pale steel etched with frost sigils, breath steady despite exhaustion, eyes bright with that dangerous clarity born only from obsession. Around them, the battlefield paused in widening ripples, soldiers instinctively yielding space as the two heirs closed the distance.
Their clash shattered the stillness.
Julius drove forward, launching skyward in a burst of mana-assisted momentum, blade descending in a storm of calculated strikes that hammered against August's defense with enough force to crater the earth beneath each deflection. The Frost prince slid backward across the churned soil, boots carving lines through ash as cold magic flared along his weapon to absorb the punishment.
They broke apart, breathing hard.
"Is this truly the price?" Julius said, voice raw. "Mountains of dead for a buried spark of power?"
August's laughter was quiet, almost indulgent.
"Power decides whose lives matter. When I claim the core, the world will remember who stood above it. That is worth any number of graves."
They moved again, exhaustion screaming through their muscles as duty forced them to move. Blades met. Mana surged. The battlefield reignited under their command.
"Mages — empty your reserves," August called, never taking his eyes off Julius. "Warriors — spend yourselves. Victory demands it."
Julius answered with equal force.
"Hold formation! You defend each other, or you fall alone. That is my command."
Armies surged once more beneath the growing heat of the rising sun.
And then the sunlight died.
Shadow swept across the battlefield not like cloud cover, but like something alive passing between the world and its star. Wind pressure rolled outward, flattening banners and rattling armor plates. Horses screamed. Spellcasters faltered mid-incantation as mana currents warped unpredictably around them.
A sound followed.
Low. Vast. Not heard so much as felt — a vibration that crawled through bone and soil alike.
Heads tilted upward.
At first, there was only motion — a shape too immense to resolve, devouring distance with each beat of wings that displaced entire volumes of air. Then color emerged through the gloom: crimson scales catching what little light escaped, horns like obsidian crescents, and a body whose proportions defied instinctive measurement. It did not resemble a creature entering their sky.
It resembled a decision to move for geographical reasons.
Weapons slipped from numb hands. Knees struck dirt unbidden. Across both armies, discipline evaporated under something older than training — a survival reflex acknowledging overwhelming dominion. Julius and August lowered their blades almost simultaneously, neither speaking, both aware that whatever conflict had defined their world seconds ago had become meaningless.
The dragon passed above them.
Not attacking. Not acknowledging. Simply existing in their sky as it glided toward the distant coast, its shadow trailing across thousands like an eclipse given intent.
When it descended, the ground reacted before impact. Tremors rippled outward. Loose stone leapt. Coastal fortifications shuddered as the creature settled against the shoreline with a presence heavy enough to rewrite the posture of the land itself.
The war had ended.
Not by treaty.
Not by victory.
But from a perspective.
The dragon shifted once it reached the shoreline, the tide recoiling slightly around its descending weight. Sand compacted beneath its steps as it settled upright onto two legs, spine unfolding with slow, unhurried ease. One claw idly scratched across its scaled abdomen, the gesture absent-minded, almost domestic, while the tips of its immense feet slipped into the surf.
It exhaled.
Relief came not as a roar but as a deep, satisfied sigh that carried across the coast like warm wind rolling through canyon stone.
"Four days and four nights… and I am finally unburdened of that particular discomfort."
The thought drifted through its mind with languid contentment. It had abandoned its mountain when the noise began — the endless clatter of iron and detonating mana tearing at its rest. Humans again, carving one another apart with admirable enthusiasm. It had relocated to the great forest for silence.
Apparently, silence had not relocated with it.
"They breed, they clash, they vanish. Then more appear and repeat it. A fascinating cycle, if one cared to catalogue insects."
The dragon tilted its head, gaze wandering lazily toward the distant battlefield as the ocean continued its quiet accompaniment.
Let me see… yes. More fallen. Efficient work today—
A pause.
Its pupils narrowed.
Hm?
The fighting had stopped.
Across the scarred expanse of churned earth, thousands of tiny figures stood frozen, every face angled toward the shoreline. Even at a distance, attention has a texture. It prickles against instinct.
The dragon shifted slightly, awareness settling.
"…Are they looking at me?
A brief silence stretched between species — an entire war held hostage by eye contact and an uninterrupted stream pattering into saltwater.
The dragon spoke.
"Did your parents never teach you not to stare?"
The voice crossed the miles effortlessly, vast and resonant, not shouted but simply present — vibrating through armor, bone, and soil alike.
Shock rippled across the armies.
Julius blinked, thoughts scrambling.
It… spoke?
August stared, mind caught between awe and incomprehension.
A dragon… relieving itself… while addressing us?
Several mages froze, their internal composure collapsing entirely.
"It stands upright like a man. This cannot possibly be protocol for witnessing legendary beings."
Silence followed — thick, awkward, eternal — broken only by the continued sound of water meeting water.
The dragon finished, stepped free of the tide, and regarded the distant gathering with casual detachment. It towered impossibly high, body rising until portions of its silhouette brushed the low clouds, every scale reflecting quiet authority. Legends had spoken of dragons as calamities incarnate. Standing before one now, the truth seemed simpler.
It did not radiate hostility.
It radiated indifference.
"Sufficient," it murmured to itself.
Its wings unfolded, membranes stretching wide enough to cast moving shadows across the coastline. The first beat displaced entire volumes of air, flattening grass and sending waves crashing outward in turbulent response. With a second motion, its colossal form lifted skyward, ascending with unceremonious ease, already dismissing the battlefield from thought.
Below, thousands remained motionless long after the crimson shape vanished into the distance.
August finally broke the quiet.
"…Julius."
"Yes."
"…We should call off the war."
A pause. Then a tired nod.
"Agreed."
Neither prince cared to explain their reasoning. Some experiences did not invite analysis. They rearranged perspective, leaving the mind to adapt or fracture.
The battlefield remained still under returning sunlight — its violence interrupted not by diplomacy or defeat, but by the brief, indifferent routine of something vastly beyond it.
The dragon rose into the sky and turned toward the mountain it had abandoned days before, its wings beating in steady rhythm as it cut through the air. The sound of its movement carried a strange, almost musical cadence, as currents folded and reformed around its massive form. Below, the land stretched out in wounded silence. Fields had been carved open by marching armies, forests blackened by fire, and long scars of displaced earth ran across the terrain where magic had struck with careless force. From above, the devastation looked less like strategy and more like noise — the messy aftermath of small beings exhausting themselves.
It regarded the damage with detached thought as it passed over the broken landscape. This was far beyond what it remembered leaving behind. "This is a mess," it murmured to itself, voice rolling through the wind like distant thunder. The mana currents were unstable here, shimmering in fractured patterns that disturbed the natural flow it had grown accustomed to sensing. There were pockets of turbulence and distortion, evidence of repeated spellcasting on a scale far too energetic for simple skirmishes. "They battled all the way here… there is considerable displacement. Explosion casting perhaps?" The thought lingered only briefly before something sharper surfaced.
The dragon slowed, awareness tightening. It traced the path of destruction again, this time with focus, following the chain of mana disturbances stretching farther than expected. "Explosions…" The word settled heavily in its mind as realization unfolded. "All this way…" A brief silence followed. "…My mountain."
The rhythm of its flight shattered instantly. Its wings drove downward with renewed force, air detonating outward as speed replaced calm motion. Distance collapsed beneath it as the dragon surged forward, urgency displacing its earlier indifference. The horizon shifted, familiar landmarks emerging — or rather, failing to emerge. Where towering stone had once stood, the skyline appeared wrong, flattened, broken.
When the dragon arrived, absence greeted it.
The mountain had not merely been damaged. It had been ruined. The cliff that once rose proudly above the horizon now lay fractured, its structure collapsed into massive heaps of shattered rock. Slopes had caved inward, and long cracks ran through what remained of its body. Dust and debris coated everything in a dull stillness that felt foreign compared to the living winds that once swept across the heights. The dragon descended slowly, its landing sending vibrations through the rubble as it stepped forward to examine what remained.
It moved through the wreckage with deliberate calm, pushing aside stone fragments with quiet strength. This had been its place for three hundred years. Here it had rested through countless cycles of day and night, feeling the clean wind sweep across open distance. Here, it had stored remnants of meals and small curiosities it had never bothered to finish. The familiarity of it was woven into habit rather than sentiment, yet seeing it reduced to broken matter carried a weight that settled heavily into its awareness.
The dragon stood in silence, absorbing the reality before it. It had never concerned itself with human conflicts, never involved itself in their ambitions or rivalries. Their struggles were brief, repetitive disturbances that faded as quickly as they arose. But now the consequences of those disturbances lay scattered at its feet. Golden eyes began to glow, light gathering behind them as power stirred instinctively through its body. The surrounding air thickened, carrying a subtle pressure that bent the atmosphere itself. The dragon did not roar or lash out; it simply recognized the shift within itself.
It did not care about humans or their affairs. It never had.
Until this moment.
Now, as its aura burned quietly into the air around it, the dragon understood something with perfect clarity. A line had been crossed, and the calm indifference that defined its existence had given way to something far less forgiving. It stood amid the ruins of its home, unmistakably, completely pissed.
The battlefield had quieted, though not peacefully. Blood darkened the churned soil, steel lay scattered among the fallen, and the smell of burnt mana clung to the air like lingering smoke after a storm. War had exhausted itself here. Healers moved between the wounded with careful urgency, mages kneeling to mend flesh with fading reserves of power, while others wrapped the bodies of the dead in cloth so they might return home with dignity. It was the fifth morning, and victory no longer resembled triumph — only survival.
Prince Julius Von Trudus stood among what remained of his soldiers, armor stained, posture rigid despite fatigue carved deep into his frame. He watched in silence as comrades were lifted and carried away, grief settling into him with a weight he did not resist. He lowered himself to one knee, bracing on his sword as though grounding himself against the world's cruelty, and bowed his head.
"Oh great deity of love and protection," he whispered, voice worn yet steady, "guide these fallen souls to rest. Continue to watch over our people… our empire."
Behind him, footsteps approached. August Frost, heir to the opposing throne, came to stand nearby, his expression tight with restrained frustration rather than reverence. War had not delivered what his kingdom sought, and the outcome had left him unsatisfied.
"My father will not accept this ending," August said. "This war may pause, but our goal remains unchanged."
Julius rose, meeting his gaze without hostility, only quiet resolve. "Then we will meet you again prepared."
They turned from one another without ceremony, returning to their respective remnants. Julius moved among the wounded, offering hands where he could, encouragement where magic could not reach. Eventually, distance pulled him aside, and he lifted his gaze toward the open sky. Wind brushed through his blonde hair, sunlight catching in his eyes, the color of clear daybreak. Thoughts lingered on the crimson catastrophe that had descended earlier and vanished just as suddenly.
He spoke upward, not expecting a reply. "Was that your doing… to end this slaughter?"
The sunlight vanished.
A shadow swallowed the sky, vast and unmistakable. Silence fell across the field as instinct gripped every living body present. Wind arrived next — not gentle, but heavy, charged — and heads tilted upward in collective dread. The clouds themselves seemed to darken as a shape carved through them.
"It… it can't be…" a soldier muttered, trembling.
The dragon descended without restraint. Air thundered beneath its wings, and Julius felt certainty sink into him like iron: this arrival was not a coincidence, nor an observation. It was intent.
"Retreat!" he shouted with every ounce of authority he possessed. "All forces fall back!"
But escape was already meaningless.
The dragon struck the earth like judgment given form. The impact shattered what remained of the calm, sending tremors through soil and bone alike. Horses screamed and bucked uncontrollably, structures of camp and equipment collapsed, and wind lashed outward in violent bursts. Then the creature roared — a sound older than civilization, resonant enough to still motion itself. The battlefield froze beneath that voice, pinned in place by the weight of something ancient asserting existence.
Its wings unfurled, mana igniting across crimson scales like embers stirred to life. Golden eyes burned with focused fury as it regarded the assembled humans.
"Which of you destroyed my mountain?"
No one answered. No one dared.
The dragon's gaze sharpened, heat steaming from its breath. "I will not repeat myself without consequence. Which of you is responsible?"
Confusion rippled through the survivors. Julius struggled even to raise his head beneath that pressure. Mountain? he wondered. What mountain had they—
Understanding dawned among the mages first, horror widening their eyes as memories of large-scale explosive casting surfaced. August's grip tightened on his saddle, thoughts fracturing between survival and pride. Whatever the truth, none wished to stand accused.
He made his choice.
"If you value your lives, flee!" he commanded his remaining forces. "Ride! Now!"
They obeyed instantly, scattering in desperate retreat, abandoning even wounded companions in the instinct to live. August followed, driving his horse forward without looking back.
The dragon watched their flight with cold clarity. "I see. Responsibility wears your banner today, Frostborn."
Light gathered within its body, rising from its core to its jaws, the glow of mana compressing into catastrophic intent. It inhaled deeply, air bending toward it, then released.
Flame swept the battlefield like a collapsing sun — red and orange devastation compressed into focused annihilation. The ground ignited, armor liquefied, bodies ceased to exist before screams could finish forming. Heat warped distance, sound vanished beneath the roar of burning reality, and when the inferno passed, nothing remained where the Frost forces had been—only scorched emptiness.
The dragon exhaled slowly and turned toward the kneeling survivors of Vartas.
They bowed instinctively, surrendering to a scale beyond defiance. Julius felt hopelessness settle into his bones, yet he did not collapse completely. He listened.
"I have lived peacefully," the dragon said, voice heavy with restrained fire. "I permitted your civilizations to bloom and rot without interference. I witnessed your wars as one observes weather — transient, irrelevant."
Its eyes glowed brighter.
"But you mistook my silence for absence. You destroyed what was mine without awareness, without restraint. Tell me… what should I do now? Reduce your kingdoms to ash? Teach the world how fragile its empires truly are?"
Julius forced himself upright. Terror strangled his breath, yet desperation found words. "G-Great dragon…"
The creature's gaze struck him with crushing attention. "You dare address me?"
He swallowed hard, voice shaking. "We… will build for you. A castle greater than any in our lands. Spare us, and we will atone."
Silence followed. The dragon leaned back slightly, one claw resting beneath its chin as it considered the proposal with visible thought.
"A castle," it mused. "A structured hoard… walls, halls, capacity for accumulation."
The idea settled pleasantly in its mind.
"I accept — provisionally. You will construct it within two years. It will surpass the pride of your empire. Fail, and I will erase what remains of your civilization, beginning with everything you hold dear."
Julius nodded, unable to speak.
Satisfied, the dragon turned and departed, walking upright toward the horizon, each step shaking the land until distance swallowed its presence.
Only then did movement return to the battlefield. Survivors remained kneeling, minds fractured by what they had witnessed. The war had ended. Reality itself had intervened.
And nothing would ever be normal again.